No More Waiting On Forever
by ericajanebarry
Summary: Written in honor of Penelope Wilton's 70th birthday. A fresh take on how Richobel came to be, set in S4.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: In honor of Penelope Wilton's 70th birthday, it occurred to me to attempt to write a Richobel piece centered around Isobel's birthday. As with most things I write, I began with an idea and it veered dramatically off my original course, but what that means is that this will be a two-shot culminating in the celebration of Isobel's birthday. Rating might increase to a T with the second chapter, but this will not venture into full-on M.**

 **This is the first Richobel piece I've written that is not centered in the universe I built for them in Worthy and True. It's still set in S4, but this is a new exploration of how they may have come together, Julian Fellowes notwithstanding.**

 **Also as with nearly everything I write, this was influenced heavily by song lyrics/titles. If it matters, No More Waiting On Forever is courtesy of the song "Now Or Never" by The Willis Clan. The title of this chapter was taken from "Nothing I Can Do" by Ben Taylor, son of James.**

 **Hope you enjoy and please drop me a line or two by way of review!**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **1\. Nothing I'd Rather Do**

Kissing her was a risk, but one he had calculated for so long by the time he did it that he knew there was nothing to lose but a moment's dignity. In the end it was not the occasion he had always thought it would be, but instead a rather ordinary incident turned momentous. After helping her into her coat one evening as they prepared to leave the hospital, he took her hand in his when she pulled her gloves from her pockets. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand in thanks for her support throughout what had been a long and busy day. She blushed prettily and when she turned to pull away from his grasp he gave her hand a gentle tug, pulling her back in until she stood just a hair's breadth from him. He knew he would never forget the way she stared at his lips, her face impassive but for the rapid half-blinks and the corner of her mouth that quirked infinitesimally.

"Yes," she breathed, an exhale he felt rather than heard. And then his mouth was on hers, just a brush of lips, her fingertips pressing against her own when they parted.

She blinked at him again. "Did you mean that?"

He cocked his head ever so slightly. "Did _you_?"

"I asked you first!" she huffed, folding her arms across her chest.

"I have wanted that since 1912," he responded.

"As have I," she muttered, blushing to the roots of her hair.

"Beg pardon?"

Her mouth dropped open. He'd heard her and she knew it. He was trying to get her ire up now.

She looked him straight in the eye. "I said, _as have I."_

And then she kissed _him,_ clutching his lapels and parting her lips just slightly, willing him to do the same. She mewled into his mouth when he did, and at the sound he drew her into the circle of his arms, the palm of one hand resting in the small of her back and the other between her shoulder blades. Her arms wound themselves around his neck, the pad of her thumb running over the short hairs at his nape, and she felt a long-dormant part of herself come alive once again. For twenty years she had been a widow, carrying the name of her late husband with no husband to show for it. A nurse, a mother. But a woman? She had ceased to feel like a woman the day she buried Reginald, and now …

Now she found herself in the arms of a man again, and not just those of any man, but of her friend, her confidant, the only man who had caught her eye in all the years of her solitude. And it felt good; it felt _right_. It felt like … she chuckled there, in his arms, her cheeks flushing once more. _It felt like love._

"What is it?" he asked in a half-whisper. One hand moved to her hip and his thumb absently traced circles there.

"I don't do things like this. I haven't … I was never going to …" She fumbled for words, glancing at the floorboards with a sudden fascination.

"Isobel." He said it so gently. Just her name, and then his hand came up to cup her chin, lifting her eyes to meet his. She looked into their crystalline depths and knew for certain that love was what she felt.

"I haven't kissed a man since Reginald. I'd assumed that was all dead and buried along with him. But I … you … this …" _Oh, but she was making a mad fool of herself!_ She who never had been caught short of words suddenly found herself incapable of stringing a coherent sentence together in the presence of - _in the arms of_ \- Richard Clarkson.

"Ah, but it was _I_ who kissed _you_ ," he replied, his eyes twinkling. He knew she was nervous, and he was determined to make her feel at ease with this newborn _something_ between them.

"And why? _Why_ did you kiss me, Richard? I know you; there is not an impulsive bone in your body. This is something you've considered, likely for a long while. I—"

"Isobel," he interrupted, taking her hands in his, twining their fingers together. "I kissed you because I love you."

She stood there blinking at him for a long moment. "I know," she replied. "I have known. A man doesn't generally care for a woman who isn't his blood the way you've cared for me … unless he is in love. But why _now_ , if it's as you say and you've wanted … _more_ … for such a very long time?"

He cradled her face in his hand then, and she leaned into his touch. Oh, how long, how very long indeed, had she dreamt of this, and now that it was happening she was nearly breathless with expectation.

"You weren't ready then," he said simply, as if it were the most natural conclusion in all the world. "You may have thought you were, but your heart wasn't your own to give."

She nodded into his palm before placing a kiss to the center of it. "I was Matthew's mother; of course I was still holding on to my identity as Reginald's wife."

"And now?" He knew, or he'd never have kissed her. But he needed _her_ to know, to hear her acknowledge what was true, before taking another step forward.

She sighed then. She supposed that this was part of her _new normal_ ; that now that her son was dead even her most joyous moments would forever be singed around the edges with sorrow. But she knew that if he _were_ here, Matthew would have been the first to lend his support to this … _this_. Whatever it was about to become. "Now?" she echoed. "He's gone, Richard. They both are, and what have I to lose? I could live another thirty years and …" She trailed off, realizing that what she'd been about to say could be regarded as putting the cart before the horse.

"Isobel, you've never been one to censor yourself. Why begin now? Whatever you were going to say, _it's me_. It's only the two of us here, and I'm made of stern stuff."

His words - _It's only the two of us here -_ reminded her of the lateness of the hour. "It's dark, and I should be off home," she said by way of deflection.

"I'll walk you," he replied, and she gave up the pretense of protest. It was time to move forward, to feel again. To cease denying herself happiness when there existed no prohibition of such.

"Thank you," she conceded with a tiny half-smile. She let go of his hands and he passed her gloves to her, watching with fascination as she put them on. He marveled at her hands, so finely manicured and delicate in appearance, yet stronger than his own in many ways. He had watched those hands remove shrapnel from young soldiers' battle wounds and suture deep incisions. Hers had been the hands that had thrust into his the vial full of adrenaline that saved John Drake's life. And that was the precise moment he had fallen in love with her.

She caught him staring and wondered what on earth was so interesting about her hands. She cleared her throat and he looked up, his face reddening. She had the good grace to say nothing and he smiled gratefully.

"Ready, then?" She nodded and he offered his arm, and when she accepted he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

They were quiet for a time as they walked along, a sort of companionable silence between two people who had long since given up hoping for the very thing that was now stirring to life like embers slowly fanned to flame. They listened to the cadence of two sets of footsteps. He felt the brush of her elbow against the side of his rib cage and she noted the warmth radiating from him, through his coat and hers and her gloves and suffusing into the tips of her fingers until they tingled.

It was he who spoke at last, breaking them both out of their reverie. "You didn't finish your thought back in the office." She shook her head. She should have known he'd not let it rest. He saw it and continued before she had a chance to speak. "I know what I feel, what we both feel. But _you_ need to be certain, Isobel."

She halted him with a press of her hand against his elbow. As she looked at him, backlit by the moonlight so that his silvery-blond hair fairly glowed, his eyes spoke to her of total acceptance, security and utmost respect. "I was going to say that I could live another thirty years and I don't want to be alone. You have been the constant, the only sure thing in my life since I lost Matthew and when I think about the future, I see you in it. I know the name for the condition with which I am beset." At this they both smiled and his arm went around her waist. "I love you, Richard."

This time it was she who slipped her gloved hand along his cheek and drew him closer, pressing her lips to his. His hands held her hips and he latched onto her bottom lip, nibbling lightly. She sighed into his mouth, her heart beginning to race at the feeling of being this close to him, the object of his affection. The tip of her tongue darted out to trace his upper lip and he groaned, his lips parting to grant her access. He held perfectly still, fully focused on the sensation of being kissed by her after so many years of longing for this very moment. Her lips were soft, so soft, and she tasted of vanilla and bergamot and something sweet that he couldn't place, something he concluded in short order was utterly _Isobel_.

They only broke apart when he realized she was trembling, and as his lips left hers she moaned in protest. "Whyever did you stop?" She regarded him with slight indignation.

He laughed heartily, drawing her against him. "Darling, don't you know you're shivering? We must get you home."

She shook her head, reveling in his embrace. "I'm not cold. I'm … _giddy,_ I think." And as she looked up at him he found her simply adorable.

"Nevertheless, if I'm to court you properly then I must see you home at a respectable hour and make certain you don't catch a chill."

An expression of amusement passed across her face. "And is that what we're undertaking? A proper courtship?" She linked her arm through his again and they walked on.

"It is if you wish it," he answered. "Of course, I'd like it to be more in time, but we must begin somewhere."

"Indeed we must." His words echoed in her mind. _I'd like it to be more in time._ They became the beat to which her footfalls kept time. _I'd-like-it-to-be-more-in-time, I'd-like-it-to-be-more-in-time._ She couldn't hide the smile as they approached Crawley House. _Oh, Richard,_ she thought, _as would I._ What she said to him was, "You know I've kept after myself for twenty years without incident."

He raised an eyebrow at her. If she was going to tease, then he would give it right back. "Without incident, you say?"

She rolled her eyes at him, jabbing him playfully in the ribs with her elbow. "Perhaps I lead with my heart a bit too often, but I've managed."

They had arrived at her doorstep, and as they lingered she drew close to him again, pressing her palms against his chest.

"I'd say you've done a fair bit better than manage," he said in earnest. "But you needn't any longer if you don't wish it. I'd rather enjoy keeping after you. Trying to, at any rate." He held her at the waist and swayed them gently.

"I'd like that, too," she replied, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. "I don't want to say good night, you know."

"Neither do I, but we've the day off tomorrow. Come with me to York. I've got to call in at the Royal Yorkshire but afterward we could spend the day, browse the shops. Anything you like."

Her stomach flipped giddily at the notion of making plans to see him as his … his _what,_ precisely? What was the term for one who was no longer a mother, who was ready at long last to shed the mantle of widowhood and to embrace the sweet surprise of finding love again at an age when most women resign to existing as but shadows of their younger selves?

He watched her consider this with a curious expression on her face. "Isobel," he said by way of bringing her focus back to the present.

"Hmm? Oh, sorry … Yes, of course I'll come along to York tomorrow! Thank you for asking. Only I was wondering … What am I to you? As it pertains to you and I and … _us_ , I should say."

He grinned, then regarded her with full solemnity and sincerity. "You are my Isobel." It was as simple and as complex as that, and it was the perfect answer. For a long moment she simply smiled at him, allowing herself to be held, beginning to think she could grow accustomed to the feeling of a man's arms around her again.

"I love you," she said at last. He opened the door and she stepped inside, but he took her by the hand and turned her to face him once more.

"And I, you. Good night, Isobel. Sleep well, my love." He raised a hand to the back of her neck and kissed her tenderly.

"And you," she answered, kissing her fingertips and pressing them to his lips. He kissed them, and the back of her hand, and with a wave he closed the door.

She leaned against it with her eyes closed, smiling as she recalled each moment of revelation that had passed between them this evening. Her heart was once again her own to give, and as she reflected upon kissing him she knew that at the precise moment his lips first touched hers, she had transferred in full the ownership of her heart to him. For good.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This is not the fic I was expecting to update just now, but the other day a friend made a comment on a blurb I'd posted to my writing blog on Tumblr. Her comment made me realize I had a perfectly good chapter written ... and that I'd never posted it! I can't imagine why. Well, that's not entirely true ... fighting illness and a serious whack at my confidence in my own writing abilities likely kept me from posting. Better late than never, I suppose! Hope you enjoy.**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **Previously ...  
**

 _Only I was wondering … What am I to you? As it pertains to you and I and …_ _us_ _, I should say."_

 _He grinned, then regarded her with full solemnity and sincerity. "You are my Isobel." It was as simple and as complex as that, and it was the perfect answer. For a long moment she simply smiled at him, allowing herself to be held, to begin to think she could grow accustomed to the feeling of a man's arms around her again._

 _"I love you," she said at last. He opened the door and she stepped inside, but he took her by the hand and turned her to face him once more._

 _"And I, you. Good night, Isobel. Sleep well, my love." He raised a hand to the back of her neck and kissed her tenderly._

 _"And you," she answered, kissing her fingertips and pressing them to his kissed them, and the back of her hand, and with a wave he closed the door._

 _She leaned against it with her eyes closed, smiling as she recalled each moment of revelation that had passed between them this evening. Her heart was once again her own to give, and as she reflected upon kissing him she knew that at the precise moment his lips touched hers, she had transferred in full the ownership of her heart to him. For good._

* * *

 **2\. Feels Like I'm Falling in Love**

Winter turned to spring, and summer had nearly arrived. Richard had been courting Isobel for the better part of five months, and the timing could not have been more serendipitous. The cold, isolated grey months had never been Isobel's favorite, and had she not had Richard to occupy her time she could easily have fallen into a dark, desolate turmoil as she faced her first winter without Matthew.

Instead, however, she had spent the time visiting libraries and music halls, attending medical conferences and flower shows with Richard. When the trees had come in leaf and the wildflowers had begun to bloom, they had taken a day trip by train to Whitby, over the moors. They had neither made an attempt to deny nor to advertise their courtship, but Isobel had felt particularly besotted that day as she sat next to Richard, their shoulders touching, and he'd taken her hand in his.

They had neither made an attempt to deny nor to advertise their courtship, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to act as if nothing had changed. While there'd always been an inherent sort of wordless communication between them, their nascent romance had lent new significance to glances across the dinner table at the Abbey. One evening, in response to a rather venomous barb directed at Lady Grantham by the Dowager Countess, Isobel, seated as she was to the right of the grande dame, had sent Richard a withering look. In response and to lift her spirits, he'd raised an eyebrow at her, his eyes twinkling, and she'd looked down at the floor just expeditiously enough that none should have caught the way her cheeks flushed. None, that is, except for him, and he nearly choked on the wine he'd been sipping.

 _Serves you right_ , her eyes told him.

Despite the excitement wrought by the wining and dining and out-of-the-ordinary experiences inherent in formal courtship, their favorite moments were those spent alone together at home. His or hers. Kisses stolen beneath the arched stone entrance to the garden at Crawley House when he would discover her there in the cool of late afternoon; the impromptu boutonniere she fashioned for him from a sprig of lavender and the blossom of one of her roses.

Most evenings when he arrived home from work he would find her there, waiting for him with a glass of whisky and supper at the ready. The words, "You don't have to do this, you know" had been on the tip of his tongue, but he refrained from saying them because _of course_ she knew. At the center of her being was a need to feel purposeful; how better, then, to find fulfillment than to do for those she loved? And so he would greet her with a grateful embrace and an enthusiastic kiss and he would revel in the feeling of her hands, small and yet so strong, massaging his shoulders, pulling the day's tension out of them. _A burden shared is a burden halved_ , she would say with a soft smile and love in her eyes.

It was growing increasingly difficult to part ways at the end of the evening. Following supper at either house it had become their custom to do the washing up together (she having dismissed her small staff after the death of her son; she had always taken care of herself and had never been comfortable with the notion of being waited upon in her own home) and then to retire to the sitting room. In the earliest days they'd sat in armchairs facing one another, progressing then to opposite ends of the settee. They would discuss the hospital, the recent developments in the use of insulin to treat diabetes mellitus or the effects of chloroform upon laboring women and their infants. He would raise the issue of politics, goading her just to see her with her ire up, hackles raised and bosom heaving.

"Why do you do this?" she huffed one evening, exasperated after dissecting the finer points of suffrage only to have him play devil's advocate. "You may be a stickler for the tried and true, but I know you are not so backward as to actually believe that the participation of women in the political system would lead to its collapse."

"You want to know why I'm doing this? _This_ is why. Look at you. That fire inside you … it's still there. It did not die alongside Matthew. Whether I agree with you is not the matter at hand. Your circumstances have changed, but _you've_ not changed, Isobel. You care about those life has forgotten. You speak for the ones who have no voice. You're the most selfless person I've ever known. It's still there, burning brighter than ever." He moved closer to her on the settee, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. He raised his eyes to hers as he kissed the back of her hand, lingering, sucking lightly on the knuckle of her index finger. He saw her eyes close, watched her press her lips together.

"Isobel, you're beautiful," he told her. "You've always been, but when you've a bee in your bonnet you're breathtaking." His hand moved to the back of her neck and she scooted closer, moaning into his mouth when he kissed her forcefully.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, marveling at the softness of it. His arms went around her, drawing her against him until their chests pressed together as his mouth explored hers.

 **oOoOo**

She hadn't meant for it to happen at all. His cottage had become something of a refuge for her, a haven in which she could look at the paintings on the walls and walk upon the floorboards without each glance and every step reminding her of Matthew. What was more, she liked the lived-in feeling of the place, its furnishings chosen for utilitarian and sentimental purposes; for comfort, not for show.

He had given her a key to his cottage not long after they began courting in earnest, and before long she was spending the majority of her time there, even when he wasn't at home. So much time, in fact, that she'd a favorite corner of the sitting room sofa, a favorite blanket with which to cover herself as she read. And with regard to reading, a sufficient number of her books had begun to migrate over from Crawley House to warrant his designating them space on one of the bookshelves by the fireplace.

She kept to the common areas of the house - the kitchen, the sitting room, the garden (which benefited much from her regular presence and practiced hand) - except for the occasional foray into his study when he requested a particular volume or article brought to him at the hospital. But on one particularly chilly afternoon she went in search of the cardigan he'd lent her for occasions like this one, when the fire and her favorite tartan throw were inadequate against the damp. It wasn't on its customary hook by the front door, nor anywhere else in the downstairs so far as she could ascertain. _Perhaps he's hung it in the wardrobe_ , she reckoned, and made her way upstairs to seek it out.

She had not ventured into his bedroom prior to that afternoon. It wasn't that he'd forbidden it - quite the contrary, in fact. When he'd observed how happy she seemed, how well and truly _at home_ she was in his home, he was more than pleased to give her the run of the place. For Isobel it was more what it implied - an intimate sort of familiarity. She loved him, this she knew with all certainty. And he loved her. If fact, she was often caught wrong-footed by how much he loved her.

But to be in the man's bedroom brought to mind thoughts of a sort that she should not be thinking with regard to a man who was not her husband. _I will not look at his bed_ , she resolved, but upon entering the room it was the first thing upon which her eyes fell, situated parallel to the doorway as it was. She caught herself smiling. She had figured him for dark walls, tartan bedding, and a dearth of furniture. Instead she discovered whitewashed walls and a lovely stone fireplace much like the one in the sitting room. The bedframe was of wrought iron but it and the exposed ceiling beams were the only dark-colored features. The bedding was white with blue pinstripes. Beside the bed sat a simple ladderback chair, and a settee upholstered in a light grey faced the fireplace, a sheepskin rug on the floor in front of it. Bookshelves lined the walls in a similar fashion to those in his study. White muslin curtains hung in the windows. The room was not at all what she had supposed it would be, and yet it was perfectly suited to him.

She opened the doors of the wardrobe in search of the cardigan, but it was not to be found. Not finding it, she should have closed the doors and gone back downstairs. Instead she found herself trailing fingertips over the jackets and shirts, the uniform she had so thrilled at seeing him in. She missed him suddenly. _Idiot woman_ , she chided herself with a shake of her head, _pining after him like a doe-eyed schoolgirl!_ Swiftly she shut the wardrobe doors and turned on her heel.

It was just as she was about to step out of the room that her eyes alighted upon a cardigan draped over the chair next to the bed. It wasn't "hers," but she picked it up anyhow. It was of dark grey wool, cable knit, and when she held it to herself she caught his scent - a mix of shaving soap and woodsmoke and pipe tobacco. She smiled as she caught sight of his pipe upon the mantel. Chilled as she was, she shrugged the garment on, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He was only slightly taller than she and so it was not absurdly outsized on her, and once she rolled the sleeves and fastened the buttons she began to warm up straightaway. She should have returned downstairs then, but as she grew warmer her eyelids became heavy, and being wrapped in Richard's cardigan was almost as comforting as being enfolded in his arms. She lay down on the bed, sighing as she discovered his pillow smelt even more strongly of him. In her fatigue and surrounded by his essence she must have thought he was there with her, as just before sleep claimed her she whispered, "I love you."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I was shocked by your warm reception of the last update! Thank you all for the lovely reviews - particularly my guest reviewers, whom I cannot thank personally.**

 **All bets are off with this fic ... whatever I might have said at the outset about this story not venturing into 'M' territory seems laughable to me now. It'll go wherever these two goobers take it. Would that be alright?**

 **Here be fluff and UST.**

 **xx,**  
 **~ejb~**

* * *

 **3\. Come Rain Or Come Shine  
**

Richard arrived home to smoke rising from the chimney. The door was unlocked and as he stepped inside the aroma of freshly baked bread washed over him. He smiled. Isobel was here. His heart leapt and he shook his head. _Easy, man. Mustn't get ahead of ourselves._

He hung his coat and hat by the door. Typically by this point, she would come to greet him, often with a tumbler of whisky in hand. But she did not come, and there was no answer when he called out to her. Puzzled, he went to the back windows. It was raining steadily and therefore unlikely she would be in the garden, but one never knew with Isobel. What was certain was that she would not have set off for Crawley House without damping down the fire and locking the door, so he could safely conclude she was somewhere within. When a thorough search of the main floor failed to turn her up, he headed upstairs.

He stepped through the doorway into his bedroom and his heart caught in his throat when he spied her asleep on the bed, clad in his cardigan and hugging his pillow to her chest.

Isobel … in his bed.

 _Slow down,_ his conscience called even as images of flickering embers and tousled bedclothes danced before his eyes.

He debated waking her; she would want to know he was home, certainly. But he knew that she would be mortified at having been found asleep when he got home – usually, she had at least got supper started by then - and asleep in _his bed?_ She'd never forgive herself. As he watched her, her features unguarded, the barest hint of a smile quirking at the corners of her mouth, he was struck by the urge to lie down with her, to take her in his arms and curl his body around hers.

Realizing the turn his thoughts had taken, he shook them off and made to leave the room, but not before reaching out to trace the pad of his thumb along her cheekbone. She sighed at his touch. Oh, but it would be so easy to lie with her, to draw her close.

 _No._ She was not his wife, and Isobel Crawley was as far as one could be from the sort of woman to take a lover. Noting that she felt cold to the touch, he took up the blanket at the foot of the bed and spread it over her sleeping form.

He would have to take his chances on her being cross when she woke. For the moment it seemed the best course of action was for him to retreat to the downstairs as quickly as possible. He had some thinking to do.

 **oOoOo**

When Isobel woke it was dusk and she was disoriented. She was lying on a bed that was not hers, in a room that was not in Crawley House, covered with a blanket that was unlike any she owned. She yawned and stretched, inhaling deeply, and as she did so she caught Richard's scent. Recollection then followed swiftly. _Richard's bed. Richard! It's nearly dark. He'll have been home for hours. He'll know what I've done!_ She buried her face in her hands momentarily before rising to her feet. She knew she'd been caught out - the blanket was the giveaway. Even so, she folded it, draping it neatly over the footboard as she'd found it. She fluffed the pillows and straightened the bedclothes before stepping into the lavatory to check her appearance.

After smoothing her hair and clothing she made her way downstairs. A delightful aroma wafted in from the kitchen and she registered the sounds of Richard moving about, opening and closing cupboard doors and humming softly. Despite his apparently genial air, she felt badly for not having supper ready. It wasn't as if he expected it of her by any means, but it seemed to her the least she could do; after all, she'd been at home all day, in _his_ home, while he worked. She stood just outside the doorway and watched him, deciding that whatever he thought of finding her asleep in his bed, vexation did not figure into the equation. Raising a hand to smooth her hair one more time she joined him in the kitchen.

He looked up when she entered and the smile in his eyes was even brighter than the one that pulled at the corners of his mouth. "Sleeping Beauty has awakened," he teased.

A half-smile formed and she covered her eyes with her hand, peering through her fingers at him. "Oh, Richard, I am _mortified!_ I had no intention of—… And I know how it must have looked—… And I'm … I'm sorry." She averted her eyes, her cheeks flushing crimson.

He simply grinned, enjoying the sight of her flustered. "Did you find whatever it was you were looking for?"

She rolled her eyes - his influence was having an effect upon her - and allowed her own smile to widen. _How he loved to watch her squirm!_ "It was cold here today, what with the rain, and the cardigan you lent me was nowhere to be found."

"It's at the hospital," he said simply, abandoning the food preparation and moving toward her.

"Pardon?" She regarded him curiously, then appreciatively as his arm encircled her waist.

"Hanging on the back of the supply closet door. Don't you remember? Last Thursday afternoon we were called in while you were here and you wore it over. Left it hanging on the hook after you got warm." Gazing at her, he brought a hand to her face to smooth the hair at her temple. "Are you warm now?" he nearly whispered, and the sound of it - and the nearness of him - made her stomach flip. Surely he hadn't intended those words the way she heard them. His courtship of her thus far had been nothing but chaste.

She swallowed before answering. "I am rather." She looked into his eyes and willed him to see what she felt. Sufficient time had passed that she had begun to wonder about a future in which he was her husband. When she had first felt it, nothing had surprised her more. Reginald had admonished her to find happiness after he was gone. He'd said she had far too much love to give to spend her life alone. She had promised him she would, but one makes all manner of promises when one is in love. Never had she supposed there would be another man to whom she would lose her heart, but Richard was not just any man.

"That's good." This time he did whisper, and she felt upon her lips the puff of breath that issued from his.

A sibilant, "Ohh," issued from her lips as his mouth descended upon hers and her hands made their way to his shoulders. His kiss was thorough as he opened her mouth with his, and she answered him with a sweep of her tongue across his lower lip. Encouraged by the sweet, sultry little sounds she made in the back of her throat he deepened the kiss, bringing a hand to the back of her head to hold her to him, and they remained that way for long moments. Gradually the kisses became softer again and she came to rest with her head on his shoulder as she toyed with the collar of his shirt and his hands fell to her hips.

"I'll take that to mean you're not cross with me, then," she quipped, lifting her head to smile up at him.

"Forgiven," he replied with a grin and another press of his lips to hers. "Now, come. I've put together a bit of supper and was just about to wake you. Let's eat while it's still warm." He gestured for her to sit down at the table and brought her a bowl of beef stew - perfect on a cold evening such as this.

"You're far too good to me, Richard. I've just spent the entire day in your home whilst you worked and now you're bringing supper to the table. I ought to be ashamed!"

He eyed her with all sincerity as he sat down across from her. "No, you oughtn't." She gaped at him, and for half a beat he allowed himself to enjoy her perplexity before elaborating. "You're healing, Isobel. And you've come remarkably far. But Rome wasn't built in a day, and if you're not going to ease up on yourself then I will."

Unable to speak, she laid her hand on top of his where it rested on the table, her mind reeling. Who was this man, and what sort of love had she found herself in?

 **You're gonna love me like nobody's loved me  
Come rain or come shine  
We'll be happy together, unhappy together  
Now won't that be just fine  
\- Ray Charles, "Come Rain or Come Shine"**


End file.
